The above example is only one of the many intrusions the helpless writer has to endure during the course of epic penmanship. Others, like shopping for life’s necessities, tobacco and single malt whiskey can be planned according to ones whim, or sobriety but not the bloody hoovering.

If you find this hoovering business resonates within you, don’t despair, I have found the perfect answer. Whilst the memsahib was away visiting somewhere, Crab Nebula I think, I  managed to cover the floor  ankle deep with ash and empty whiskey bottles, leaving only a narrow passage to extricate myself when needed. The better half, upon returning from her intergalactic sojourn, went berserk and vowed never to enter my hermitage ever again.

  This method has, of course has it’s imperfections. But if you know of a better way please let us know.

            We get woken up these mornings with the exhaust fumes of an ancient and very arthritic cement mixer wafting in through the open bedroom windows and through the mosquito netting. At least my wife Laura does, it’s her coughing that wakes me.

The official cement mixer operative arrives with his semi official advisors, about twenty of his extended family, including sons from first and second wives, their sons and various cousins, at about six a.m. The machine is surrounded by the family and coaxed into action by a chant or two and a liberal sprinkling of chicken blood over the starting handle.

It is being used to build a block of flats, next door to us, here inMombasa,Kenya. The flats are being built on a beach plot; actually, it is the beach and not a plot at all… not when the tide comes in and obliterates whatever this hugely optimistic builder managed to construct, in the previous twelve hours. Still it saves the builder having to find fresh water for the mixture of sand and mud used for shoving in between the lumps of coral he’s using to construct this edifice. In fact if this block of flats ever gets built it will take a major shift in theIndian Oceantidal patterns…but stranger things have happened.

Strange things like finding water in the Mombasa mains supply. The phenomenon is so rare that if someone unwisely reports they have any, the word gets round so quickly that a mass of hitherto unknown acquaintances suddenly arrive, complete with plastic buckets and containers, swearing undying friendship and promises of reciprocal water, in the unlikely event that they get a trickle through their own tap.

The normal greeting to a friend at home, ‘Nice weather for the time of year,’ is unheard of here amongst the ex-pat community. People look at you as though you’re crackers. The weathers always nice here, whatever the time of year. It rarely changes and  is so predictable.

No, the first thing you say to a friend in the street, shop or wherever is. ‘Got any water?’ or if you know them well enough, ‘Had at trickle lately?’ The answer’s usually unprintable.

Forget the drought issue, this lack of water inMombasaproblem exists whether it hasn’t rained for months or deluges until the roads become rivers and people, buildings and animals are carried away into a watery oblivion. The answer is in the complete lack of any maintenance on the once, very adequate, pipe and reservoir system, for fifty odd years.

If you want to, you can call in a water diviner. There is apparently a substantial amount of water underMombasa, lurking somewhere within the substrata and bore holes have been drilled to find it, seemingly with some success, although there is a probability that the town’s sewage has infiltrated the water table.

I called a diviner in once, a nice old chap that had been recommended by a friend, who swore that a friend of a friend had used him and vast amounts of the precious liquid had been found under his patio. He came complete with forked twig and mumbo jumbo’d away, backwards and forwards across the garden searching for the source of theNileor lesser springs. He eventually found an old mosquito flit gun I’d thrown away into the undergrowth in disgust, after it failed to stop me going down with a particularly bad dose of malaria. Alas no water.

‘Mikocontainis.’ Now there’s a mouthful for you. These contraptions are people powered hand carts made of old car axles and orange boxes, which rush (relatively) about, carrying all sorts of gear including water and hired to anyone by rental firms, rather in the style of Hertz. You can tell when a water mikocontaini is around by the clanking of steel washers that the operators attach to the wheel rims. This clacking along the highways and byways of Mombasa like deranged tambourines with their loads of old cooking oil denotes containers filled with water and is sold to anybody with a cast iron stomach and about 20 cents to spare. I’ve tried it, had to, but having been bought up on my mother’s weird ideas of cooking, involving no sense whatsoever of hygiene, I reckon I’m immune to pretty well anything short of a large dollop of arsenic.

‘How and when?’ you may ask do these purveyors of the precious liquid get it to sell. Well, and this is where the African mind bends itself into a wonderful entrepreneurial logic, they get it from the town’s main’s water supply. This is done by shutting off the valves on the mains pipe as it enters an area where a large number of homes are dry and connecting a pipe and tap directly on to the water main, up stream as it were, so they can fill their old cooking oil containers…and bingo! A captive customer base.

Of course this, for want of a better word,’ blackmail’ is highly profitable for all concerned. The vendor gets a cut, the mikocontaini owner gets his, and the water board official gets some, although he probably has to share his with various other officials including the Chief of Police and local politicians.

Complaining to the ‘Powers that be’ about the lack of water, even when you know it’s being siphoned off, is well worth the effort… if only for a laugh.

‘Hello, is that the water company,’ you say.

‘Yes, how are you?’ replies a very nice sounding chap.

‘I’m very well thank you, apart from having no water for the last three weeks.’

‘Well the elephants have stampeded and trampled all over the pipes.’

‘But there are no elephants; they were all shot years ago.’

‘They have travelled from Shimba in search of water.’

‘If they find any will you tell me?’

‘Certainly sir, what is your phone number?’

One of the problems with water in these parts is not just how to get it but what to do with it when you’ve got it. Some of us enterprising sort, coming from a seafaring background, know all about pumps and what not. We build a tank on or under the ground, enough to hold about two tons of the rare elixir and another one on the roof of our houses. Then if, and it’s a big ‘if’ we are lucky enough to get water through the mains we fill the bottom tank and the pump it up to the roof tank as soon as possible. But wait…it is highly likely that an electricity power cut is in operation, so power to the pump is also off. Lady luck must really be smiling on you if both are in working order. Anyway with the top tank full you can mooch around in seventh heaven, wallowing in water as it comes through taps etc in the normal way, until it all goes dry again

There are also a number of ways that enterprising people have tried to overcome the lack of water enigma. I have, in the middle of the heavy rains constructed a water catchment area consisting of a number of upturned umbrellas with a hole on the bottom directing water into both roof and ground tanks. Laura was not very happy about this, however as they were her umbrellas, so I desisted. Another way is to wander in and out of the various tourist hotels with empty water containers, washing gear and even your weekly washing if desired inside large bags stopping to have a shower, collect water and generally splash about in the bar and restaurant lavatorial closets. It’s not really recommended though, the bag gets awfully heavy and the hotel staff eventually get suspicious and demand bribes to keep quiet.

The paradoxical factor about the complete breakdown of water supply infrastructure is the hell you find yourself in if you don’t pay the Council for your water meter. It matters not a jot if any water has passed through the damn thing for months, you still have a standing charge to pay. These meters have been known to work, sometimes they work backwards, so the council theoretically owes you money, but mostly they are stuck, rusted up with disuse.

Conrad, a friend of ours, had his mains water cut off for non payment in 1984 and didn’t notice until he moved home. It was pointed out by the new tenant. In fact Conrad had survived very well cadging water from friends and collecting rain water for twentyfive odd years. He thought the mains were broken and would be fixed ‘sometime’.

Rather like the power cuts…but that’s another story.

‘Don’t forget,’ she declared one morning, just after breakfast, ‘I’ve got an appointment with the chiropodist later.’

‘Yes dear,’ I replied fighting a losing battle with a pile of dust on the mantelpiece. ‘Half ten’. I said and hoped she would be done before the Test match coverage started on television at eleven.

‘You won’t miss the football,’ she said. She called any game with a ball in it ‘football’, and even some that didn’t come to think of it.

‘No dear’, I sighed and blew the offending dust onto the top of a bookcase.

We pulled up outside the clinic,’ I’ll wait in the car,’ I said, tuning the radio into the pre cricket commentary.

Lara gave me one of her looks, not exactly one of loving helplessness, more sort of, ‘You better be here when I’ve finished with the bloodshed mate!’ Not wishing to appear in a hurry, I got out and opened the back passenger door, removed her crutches and manhandled her out of the car, through the front doors of the clinic and into the waiting room.

It was when I wandered over to the magazine rack that I first saw him.

Why I hadn’t noticed him before, and he was breathtakingly noticeable, was entirely due, looking back on it, to my thoughts on whether I could safely nip down the road to the White lion, embrace a swift half of bitter and watch the first few overs of the test match on their television while the memsahib was under the knife, therefore in no fit state to debate.

It might have been the best example of an imploding face, that I have ever seen which caught my attention. The single brown, stump of a tooth, like a solitary decrepit turret in the middle of two bright red gums, sat comfortably below a purple cratered overhanging buttress, which once passed as a nose. The eyes; I couldn’t see the eyes, they were there I’m pretty sure, but the eyebrows that covered them would have been highly commended at Crufts, if they were attached to an Old English Sheep dog. However, they weren’t, they were attached to a shock of bright red hair that spouted out of a skull in all directions. Exactly the sort of effect experienced if he had plugged himself into the nearest wall socket and had two hundred and twenty volts of electricity coursing through every strand. Then again it might have been the trousers. They looked like old maize sacks, roughly stitched together, with scant regard to the art of fine needlework and fell to ground level completely covering any footwear. But the gusset, for that is where the eyes were inextricably drawn, was made from, wait for it… a strip from an old rubber tyre with holes burnt in it to accommodate the twine that attached them to the aforementioned maize sacks.

Now I didn’t actually make a close inspection of this fabrication, but as I said to Lara afterwards this fashion, if that is what, it was may be alright in the wilds of West Cornwall, but I couldn’t see it becoming snazzy enough for a Buckingham House garden party!

Anyway, I was still pondering upon the haute couture aspect when the Chiropodist wafted in holding a cup of coffee, bade ‘a cherry good morning to all and bade my better half to join her in the torture chamber. This was accomplished in record time, aided by a method of ejecting Lara from her seat that I had perfected during the course of her incapacitation. It involved me hooking my foot under her knee and hoicking her to her feet. Not pretty, I grant you, but effective!

‘Only be ten minutes,’ said the pretty chiropodist, as she led the way down a corridor. I felt quite sorry for my beloved as she hobbled after her and decided there and then that love and duty must overcome any selfish thoughts of beer and wickets.

Have you ever tried to avoid eye contact with someone when the need to scrutinize them becomes an overwhelming desire? Well I tried and failed miserably on this occasion. Our fellow patient, for that is whom I presumed him to be, after all I surmised he couldn’t be the husband, or any relation come to that of the delectable young thing that at this very moment was digging away at Lara’s big toe…or could he? I wouldn’t be surprised at anything in this ‘neck of the woods’.

I started to roll a cigarette. The days of correctness, political or whatever hadn’t reached this outpost of the Empire yet and every waiting room was liberally supplied with ash trays. Deeply engrossed as I was in this act, I saw our friend shamble to his feet and set forth in my direction.

‘‘Spect you’ll be lightin’ up dreckly,’ he said.

I looked up. It was not a pretty sight. He was rummaging through the haystack on his skull with fingers shaped like telegraph poles. After what seemed an eternity he produced the stub end of a fag from somewhere behind his left ear which looked as if it had last seen a flame at about the time the last King died.

‘Mothers paid the ratting money this week,’ he went on,’ ‘er says buyin’ matches ‘ave to wait ’till ‘er gets ‘er pension.’

‘Ratting bill! …ratting bill’, I thought. ‘Is he a rat catcher? Well at least it would explain his mode of dress and especially the Michelin X covering his, er…more sensitive parts. ‘Council sent us one ‘o they red letters. Mother said first class post.’

‘Red?’ I said, mystified.

‘Said if we didn’t pay we’d be cut off’.

The mist slowly cleared. Rates, that’s what he was talking about. His rates demand.’Oh dear,’ I said, and passed him a box of matches. He looked too old to have a mother, in fact, it was hard to put an age on him; somewhere between fifty and ninety would be a rough guess, so I presumed he was talking about his wife. But you never know! I decided to clarify the situation. ‘Has your er, wife gone to the council offices?’

‘‘Ers up there now.’ He pointed out of the window, in the general direction of town.

‘That’s all right then,’ I said, ‘you won’t be cut off.’

The concave face with just the lone brown stump standing as a lonely sentinel, split into two, it was split from ear to ear like a fried tomato skin. I grinned back, just as idiotically. But what was he doing here,’ I thought. Perhaps his wife while passing here had a quick look in and thought it was the very place to deposit him, while she went and did battle up at the council offices. I picked up an old edition of ‘Punch’ and idly turned the pages.

‘They books got good pictures,’ he continued, ‘I seen ‘em all.’

‘Proper job,’ I said, relaxing into the vernacular.

‘Every time I comes ‘ere.’

‘Do you come here very often then?’ I asked, intrigued.

‘Every time doctor send me ‘ere.’

I put the magazine down.

‘Won’t do the job ‘eself.’

‘What job is that?’

He bent forward, I thought for a minute he was going to attempt a hand stand, but it was just to pull one of the maize sacks up, uncovering a Wellington boot. ‘Cutting these ‘ere buggers off.’

The mind boggled.

‘Sends me ‘ere, to the foot woman ‘e does, and ‘er does the job…proper.’ He looked around the waiting room. ‘Don’t mind, though. ‘He pointed to a fluorescent light on the ceiling and then lent forward towards me as though         a revelation from on high had suddenly hit him. ‘They got ‘lectric in them tubes.’

‘Hell,’ I thought not wanting to get involved in technicalities, let alone try and follow this thought process. If I did it might well be catching, I could be as batty as him by the time Lara came back.

‘Why?’ I inquired, ‘have you got to come here to have your boots cut off.’

His face screwed up into a fair imitation of an orange that had been left on the shelf for three months.’ ‘Cos Mother says they mess the blankets up!’

‘Blankets!’

‘‘Er don’t take to me goin’ to bed with ‘em on.’

‘ Well,’ I said, the mind doing somersaults,’ I can’t say I blame her.’

‘Well, I can’t take ‘em off due to my ‘artherities’ and Mother can’t due to ‘er not ‘avin’ the pullin’ power ‘er used to’.

‘So that’s why she sends you to the doctor,’ I said, having a stab in the dark.

‘‘An he give me a piece of paper ‘an I brings it down ‘ere and then the foot woman…’er cuts the buggers off for me.’

‘I see.’ I said, not seeing at all, but trying to grasp the concept of what seemed to be a significantly new area of foot fetishism.

”Bout every three month,’ he did a bit of mental arithmetic on his telegraph poles.’ I comes ‘ere.’ He threw his chest out,’ ‘spect I be ‘er best customer.’

I watched him walk over to the wall. It was covered with notices extolling the virtues of reinforced toe caps and the need to keep an eye open for athlete’s foot. He stood and scrutinized these for a few seconds and then moved to peer intently at a print that someone had stuck on the wall between the opening times and a dire warning about pricking chilblains.

‘See this ‘ere,’ He said, prodding the picture with an index telegraph pole.

I got up and walked over. The print was one of those reproductions depicting farming life in the last century. It showed a handful of farm workers standing around a high sided cart with a Shire horse standing forlornly between the shafts. The men were holding pitchforks and to a man staring, with inane grins on their ruddy faces, into the camera.

‘ That’n be Grandfather,’ my companion pointed to a young man. ‘An that’n be ‘is father.’ He pointed to another.’ ‘An this one ‘ere be his father.’

‘Good lord,’ I exclaimed, ‘how d’you know?’

‘‘Cause I got ‘riginal at ‘ome.’

It was then that the penny dropped. All the men were dressed like my friend. They all had maize sack trousers with formidable gussets, and they were standing in a broccoli field. They were broccoli picking! And the fact that my friend was in town for his quarterly visit to the ‘footwoman’, in the middle of the picking season, didn’t mean he was going to alter his mode of dress!

‘Where do you farm?’ I asked this son of the soil.

‘I farm for any bugger who want’s me…worked for most of ‘em.’ He scratched his head and I rolled a cigarette and handed him the pouch.

‘I expect you’ve got your favorites though?’

‘Well,’ he said licking the paper and rolling the tobacco up into a fair sized imitation of a squashed daddy longlegs,’ I ‘ave an’ I ‘avn’t. Most ‘o the buggers got these ‘ere tractors now…an’ me an’ tractors don’t get on spectacular together.’

I was saved having to think about technicalities again because I heard Lara shuffling up the corridor. ‘Finished?’ I said, stating the completely obvious, as I watched her swinging her way into the waiting room.

‘ For the time being,’ she said,’ Got to come back in a week’s time, just for a checkup.’

‘Good,’ I thought and then remembered my new found friend and was about to introduce them, but he was already half way into the surgery.

‘Who on earth was that?’ said Lara as we reached the car.

‘You wouldn’t believe me,’ I said,’ He’s a dying breed. They don’t make them like him anymore.’ Then I thought about it. How do I know they don’t? Out in the wild reaches of west Cornwall, out Sancreed way, the countryside’s full of them. It’s just that they don’t come into town very often; why should they; It’s a different world, a world full of cars and noise and tourists, of strangers and officialdom. Why, I bet some of them have never been into Penzance in their lives, why should they?

It was about two weeks later and I was passing the same clinic on my way to the library. I had thought of the old boy quite often and wondered how he was getting on. This time I found out.

He was walking towards me on the same side of the road with a lady. Well he was sort of waddling actually and she was a good ten yards in front of him. The fact that she was his lady was unmistakable – they just went together. His attire was the same eye catching ensemble and although she wasn’t wearing a pair of maize sacks, the pair of trousers that hung down, gusset wise, were large enough to accommodate half a broccoli field.

‘Hello,’ I said as we drew level.’ How’s the boots?’

He looked up from the cracks in the pavement he seemed to be studying and screwed his face up into the familiar dehydrated orange.’ ‘Ello my bird,’ he replied after kicking the memory banks into gear. ‘Don’t talk ’bout they buggers!’ Lifting the maize sacks up, he showed me a pair of Wellingtons that looked pretty decent, at first sight.

His wife, a small fiery woman with darting gray eyes  marched up. Not a woman to be trifled with I realized.

‘Mothers takin’ me to see the ‘foot woman’, he said.

‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.

‘ Five poun’ an’ some funny stuff,’ she shrilled.’ That’s what’s wrong!’

I presumed she was talking about decimal coinage which had only been in circulation for fifteen years or so.

‘An the silly sod,’ she went on, ‘gone ‘an put ‘em on the wrong bloody feet!’

I took a closer look at the offending articles. Sure enough, they were. He looked like Charlie Chaplin on a bad day.

‘‘Ed bin wearin’ ‘em for a bloody week ‘for I found out why ‘e were walking funny!’

‘You bought the bloody things’ he countered, as though it was all her fault.

‘ You shut up,’ she shouted,’ Go on,’ she pointed across the road towards the clinic.’ you go ‘an tell the ‘foot woman what you done.’

He waddled off across the road, feet stuck out at right angles and disappeared through the front door,.

‘ Well,’ she said, as we watched him go.’ can’t stand ‘ere gossopin’ all day, got ‘lectric light bill to pay.’

‘Goodbye’, I said and stood and watched our wonderful heritage trundle along the pavement and round the corner.

            Cast your mind back, if you’re old enough, and see if you can remember this scenario. It could be anywhere in the country and it lasted some forty years, from the nineteen twenties to the mid sixties.

Just before six o’ clock on a warm summer’s evening, usually at the weekend, when insects are high on the wing, chased by swallows and swifts. The time of day when the delicious fragrance of pasture and meadow flowers in full bloom bestow their bouquets.

Now picture the Country Pub, stone clad, ivy covered, with an inviting red glow emanating from leaded windows. The front door is unlocked from the inside and gently propped open by a kindly, ruddy faced and somewhat portly gentleman of some fifty odd years.

Suddenly the first car arrives. Inside, the driver staring fixedly ahead, pulls up sharply between some roughly drawn white lines, as close as possible to the now open front door. The passenger, a petrified boy of perhaps ten years unfolds his hands from his panic-stricken eyes and stares at a brick wall, inches from the front bumper.

The driver, obviously the thirsty father, turns the engine off, smoothes his hair into a semblance of respectability and alights with some alacrity. He is oblivious of the cigarette ash cascading down his sports jacket and rumpled flannel trousers as he makes a beeline for the open front door. With a series of judders the overwrought engine eventually shudders to a standstill. From under the bonnet a faint wisp of steam escapes, accompanied by various ticks and the aroma of hot oil as it drips gently from assorted vents in the engine onto the car park.

Within a few minutes other cars arrive, all roughly in the same manner and all parked as close as possible to the pub door for quick access, complete with freaked out sons and the occasional terrified daughter. Very rarely do they contain the mothers of these children at this ‘early doors’ time. These whole family groups role up later, with much more decorum.

Usually it takes about fifteen minutes for the first Vimto and straw to emerge, carried by a much less stressed father. The handing over of the said victuals is always accompanied by the immortal words, ‘Won’t be long.’ It’s a fallacious statement, both parties know it, but it’s mandatory nevertheless.

As time goes on the lad gets bored, remember there were no car radios, let alone Play Stations in those days. He has studied the wall and determined the number of bricks or stones that fill the windscreen. He has accounted, with as much knowledge as he can muster, the types of vegetation that the wall sustains and dug as much gunge out of his nose as is humanly possible.

By the time the next Vimto arrives, father is so full of sweetness and light, and half-full of best bitter that a bag of crisps may also be on the menu. The aforementioned ‘won’t be long’ humbug is again enthused and back goes father to continue his replenishment.

The lad now knows that it’s safe to move over into the driver’s seat and enter the world of Stirling Moss and Silverstone. The seat is adjusted, the rear view mirror, if there is one, is tilted downwards and throaty rasps start emanating  through pursed lips until the sound of a Jaguar’s highly tuned engine is judged to be just the ticket.

Foot flat down on the accelerator, the lips convulse with paroxysms of vibration and floods of half digested Vimto and crisps cover the windscreen. The steering wheel is wrenched from lock to lock as the gear stick is forced into gears that it wasn’t designed for and a scream is unleashed, denoting the screeching of tyres, as each corner is encountered. Feet are stabbing at pedals like a demented tap dancer as double de clutching manoeuvres are executed whilst death defying four wheel drifts through Woodcote corner are fought with the expertise that only a ten year old lad knows. And he knows them because he’s learnt them from his father on the way home…but more of that later.

It’s about this time that cars containing families arrive. They drive in with much more propriety than the first flush. The cars are parked so that the families have a view of the meadows and distant hills. Tractors still plough the occasional furrow with flocks of rapacious birds following in their wake. The unmistakable fragrance of haymaking assails their nostrils. The whiff of hot oil and burnt rubber is not for this category. Not for them the paltry study of brick walls and what grows out of them.

The father leaves the car and ambles across the car park, leaving his wife and children to their vista and returns in quick time with the requisite bottles of Vimto, bags of crisps and a medium dry sherry for mother. Occasionally he will bring his own half pint of bitter with him and actually stay with the family. This scenario however is unusual; the call for the Gent’s only bar is compelling even for the most downtrodden husband.

At this point in the evening’s production the next round of Vimto is normally brought out by the early starters. This is characterised by respective fathers weaving passages, through the now more congested car park, with only a hazy idea of the placement of their own car. It is often a circuitous route which necessitates a call at other cars in order to find their own. Quite often their own cars are never found and consequently boys find bottles of Vimto thrust through the car’s window by complete strangers. It is not uncommon for some boys to end up with three or four bottles and conversely of course, some with none. It is, as ever accompanied by the ‘Won’t be long’ gibberish.

Eventually, of course the father has had his fill. The realisation that home beckons is often brought on by the sight of his offspring peering in through the window in a forlorn, waif like manner. The fact that he is well into spending next week’s house keeping/gas/electricity and even mortgage money is immaterial. He bids the ensemble a fond farewell and after a lurch to theGent’s lavatory or sometimes the Ladies, proceeds with varying degrees of animation into the fast gathering dusk. He stands swaying gently outside the door and surveys the cars, then eventually makes a concentrated effort to walk steadily and with purpose to the one he perceives to be his. More often than not his son, being used to this performance, has to go and rescue his father from the far reaches of the car park and guide him back before a felony is committed involving the taking and driving away of a stranger’s car and the kidnapping of the chap’s petrified wife and mother in law.

Eventually the right car comes into focus and father girds his loins for the drive home. The car has, if you remember just completed a full Grand Prix at Silverstone and apart from the driver’s seat being covered in spilt Vimto and crisps, is now pushed as far up towards the sticky steering wheel as possible and has been turned onto full right lock. All this, plus the fact that the windscreen is covered in spittle and the gear lever is in first gear, goes completely unnoticed as father engages the starter and the car performs a stunning bound forward into the brick wall, modifying the dents on the already dented front wing.

The offspring learns lots of new words and perhaps earns a cuff around the ear at this stage of the proceedings and scrunches himself into a ball, ready to dive into the footwell if the need arises.

It is however, a well known consequence that six pints of best ‘Bitter’ bestow an automatic driving mode in this phase. This was a natural phenomenon which due to new laws and a changing perception seems to have been lost on today’s generation.

Never mind that, in those halcyon days the drive home was always incredibly exciting for sons of a certain age and it was the whole reason for accompanying father in the first place. A time to unite with a parent when the rest of the week was a ‘seen and not heard’ existence.

In those days, the Austin Seven and Morris Eight could not, by any stretch of the imagination, be thought of as fast, but could in the hands of a chap with a few pints of best bitter under his belt, certainly be made to perform in various ways not intended by the manufacturer; especially by impressing the young sprog, when the inducement to impress is most buoyant.

Instead of the son zooming around Silverstone at astronomical speeds we now have father zooming through the countryside at speeds sometimes approaching forty five miles an hour.

Being flung around the countryside by a father showing off his driving skills on these memorable drives home, adds another facet of the offsprings education, other than controlling out of control cars. Earlier he had learned a little more about the types of vegetation that grow out of brick walls and now he learns balance, more words not in common usage, two finger saluting and last but not least, bowel control.

My father showed me marks on such things as stone bridges and iron railings that his father had caused by inducing overzealous four wheel drifts. I showed my children where chunks have been taken out of telegraph poles and kerb stones where my father had under estimated braking distances and no doubt my children will show their children particularly large gaps in various hedges which I made during courageous forays, on the way home, by provoking the limits of tyre adhesion.

Upon arriving home the motor car is parked, scratched, dented, bits of flora and fauna hanging off the door handles and bumpers and steaming like a burst boiler. Father and son eventually get out and stagger to the front door. This is when the last and probably most fundamental piece of advice ever conveyed from father to son is imparted,

‘Needn’t bother to tell your mother…she wouldn’t understand.’

   

Not so much about ships, more about the characters that sail in them.

A veritable richness of oddballs grace the British Merchant Navy and here are a few reminiscences about those I’ve sailed with over a quarter of a century.

It is probable that those unlucky not to have gone to sea will believe the stories are fiction, but every seaman will nod their heads knowingly and mutter,

‘That reminds me of…’

It was wonderful knowing every one of them.

Available in all digital forms from Smashwords www.smashwords.com/books/view/102648

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Available in book form from Lulu

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The herbal induced creativeness, aided by the extraordinary thought processes, inspired by the brown ale, would yield story lines of unimaginable drivel.

And yet…and yet, out of the plethora of scribbled, hardly decipherable notes, there was nearly always  a germ of  an idea that blossomed, nay sprang, into the most marvellous story line or  passage of prose. A piece that even a certain Mr P.G Wodehouse may well have ticked as sportsmanlike… but more of that later.

This bath was always taken at about four in the afternoon, after the compulsory two-hour, after lunch nap and mandatory bottle of wine or two. The evening was spent decoding the aforementioned notes and bashing away at an old Remington with another mandatory bottle or two of the grape and Duke Ellington or similar burbling away in the background. The evening usually finished with a self-induced coma, induced, in part, by resorting extensively to Mr Roget’s lovely invention, which although having no story line, at least explained every word as one went along.

The cold light of morning always brought an air of sober thought into the proceedings; when last night’s scribblings were analysed and put into some sort of order. This is when, if the nicotine and caffeine levels are up to par, the convoluted story lines etc, showed their true colours. The ideas, those that seem plausible, were put into some sort of order and re written into a state of semi comprehension.

At midday, the first of the wine corks flew across the room, indicating luncheon. Soon after the body had been refuelled, a horizontal pose was affected affording the mind the same sort of replenishment. Upon waking, the bath would be filled and the whole process started over again.

This mode or method of artistic creation can go on for months if not years. Indeed, when you are suffused with this way of life, birthdays, Christmases, New years and all the other holidays go by without a murmur. You don’t notice them and certainly don’t miss them.

Now the problem with this wonderful mode of writing best sellers, blockbusters and what have you, is the dreaded knowledge that at some time you have to go out and shop for replenishment, i.e., food and wine, not to mention brown ale. It completely spoils the thought processes and throws you off the finely tuned balancing act, which the routine has imbued. The best method of shopping is to send out for it. If you can’t, you made it quick and made sure that the thought processes were ticking over somewhere in the dark recesses of the cranium. I married my present wife during one of the very few times we ventured out into the wide world, but neither of us can remember the year let alone the date… the twentieth century rings a bell though.

However all good things come to an end. Now we sit in front of a screen and the inspiration comes from surfing the net and suchlike, or in my case the occasional glance at  my on line bank balance.

Depressing isn’t it.

I think I’ll take a walk up to the herb garden, run a bath, and write this article.

Mind you, she’s getting very forgetful these days. Hope she hasn’t forgotten I’ve got a ‘do‘on tonight at the club. I got up and fetched the beer myself, and sat down to watch the game.
The front door opened and closed. She must have gone next door to borrow something. They are always borrowing or lending something or other. Last week they borrowed the iron, well he did… can’t remember his name. Anyway, his wife left him a couple of months ago. Hilda always seems to be helping him out.
Hell, I hope she’s remembered to iron my shirt.
The front door opened and I heard her going up stairs.
‘Hilda,’ I shouted. ‘Where the hell have you been? I nearly missed a drop goal getting my beer.’
No reply; just a sound, from the bedroom, of draws and cupboards opening and closing.
‘Hilda…Hilda,’ I shouted. ‘Have you gone deaf?’
‘George,’ she shouted from the hall, ‘I’m leaving you’.
‘OK dear,’ I said.
‘George. Did you hear what I said?’
‘Yes dear, just leave it in a chair,’
‘I said I am going to leave you. I’m going to live with Henry.’
‘Well don’t be back late dear. I might bring a few of the lads back.’
‘You can bring Prince Charles back, for all I care.’
‘Good idea love; and while you’re at it you might make a few tit bits. You know, a couple of chickens and some cold meats and stuff. Oh, and some salad things. And while you’re at Tesco’s get another case of beer.’
I don’t know why she’s gone round next door. He’s never got any beer. Hasn’t got much of anything, come to think of it. I came back early from the club, last Sunday and found him in our kitchen, with Hilda. Returning our hedge trimmer, he said. I didn’t know we’d got one. Funny time to return it, I thought, eleven thirty at night.
Then there all the DIY tools he keeps borrowing from Hilda. DIY mad he must be. Never goes out. Tried to get him to go with me to the golf club once. Wasn’t interested. No wonder his wife left him. Must have driven her mad.
I opened another can. He wouldn’t do for my Hilda, I thought. She likes a man of action does my Hilda. Couldn’t put up with me under her feet all day. Loves my involvement with the golf club. Mind you, she didn’t at first, but she seems to encourage it lately.
Just as I was about to doze off, I thought I heard the front door open and close again. It’s Hilda with the beer, I suppose. Good woman…one in a million.
Waking up an hour or two later. I went upstairs and stumbled into the bedroom. Looks a bit bare, I thought. No ironed shirt. No suit, come to that. And why are all the draws pulled out and empty.
‘Bloody hell!’ I said, ‘We’ve been burgled.’
I rushed downstairs into the hall and picked up the phone. I had dialled the second of three nines when I caught sight of the letter.
‘Dear George,’ it began.
______________________________

© Chris Chapman.

A gentle treatise on the lost art of real bullshitting

An XK Jaguar purrs onto the Pub car park. The driver’s door opens and a cavalry twilled breeched leg, complimented by regulation Brothel Creepers, materialises.

Our Quintessential Cad has arrived. He is a fast disappearing specimen, one of a host of wonderful characters who, once upon a time, used to inhabit the English social scene.

Now, by Cads, I don’t mean tricksters and con artists, well not in the strictest sense. These types are rogues in a nasty sense and go out of their way to con people; they verge on the criminal fringe, if not deep within the fabric of it.

The sort of bounders I’m citing, are the fast vanishing, if not dead breed of Cad. The flamboyant deceivers; the sort who are so captivating that the persona they have built up and developed for so long actually becomes them. They become excellent salesmen, women adore them and if they are very good at it, most men dream of emanating them.

The 2nd World War was a very good breeding ground for these types. The wearing of Regimental ties for soldier versions and handlebar moustaches for ex Spitfire pilots exemplified a sort of springboard, even though our Cad hadn’t been further than pen pushing in Catterick army barracks or flying a desk in the Air Ministry. The Navy hero types were a little bit harder to emulate; perhaps it meant adopting a rolling gate and a full set of whiskers, and although the notion of rum, bum and baccy might endear itself to certain sections of the public, it is not to be recommended.

Latterly, hinting at having been in the SAS was, and is, till tried by many ‘sorry’ types, especially after theFalklandsand Gulf conflicts. In every Pub an amateur ‘Bull Shitter’ broadly hints that he had been in the ‘Mob.’  They usually sit quaffing a lonely beer at the bar. Grumpily, they stare silently into space, wondering why nobody ever talks to them. This type just don’t realise that the art of real Cadding is more, much more than telling stories about oneself, it’s a whole conundrum of facets from subtle name dropping and deportment, appearance and manners, subtle innocence and quite importantly the ability for remembering a host of filthy jokes. These latter SAS types are best left alone to drown in their own verbal hogwash. They are not fit to lick the ‘Brothel Creepers’ of the genuine article.

The real Cad frequents the nineteenth holes in Golf clubs and hostelries of a certain standard. Rarely are they seen in the better St James’s type of Club because they would be found out in an instant by the real type of chap; one that really knows the Prince of Wales or really did advise Jack Nicklaus who was being troubled, at the time, with an errant golf swing.

So let’s return and go to one of their operating retreats, a quaint suburban Pub, usually in the Home Counties just after opening time, perhaps thirty years ago. Robert a local chap always popped in for a relaxant G & T or two on his way home from work, as did six or seven others. They comprised the ‘early doors’ crowd and thousands of pubs up and down the land had the same concoction of customers.

As they quietly rejuvenate their body and souls after a day’s toil, their attention is drawn by one of the regulars to the arrival of this previously mentioned Jaguar XK into the car park. Robert jumps up, joins the throng around the window and shudders. He looks wildly around for some avenue of escape, but it’s too late.

‘It’s your brother in law’, the Landlord says, to the distraught Robert.

‘Hell,’ says Robert, swigging his G & T down in a single gulp. The arrival of Peter, his brother in law, was a periodic event. It filled him full of dread, not to mention acute embarrassment. Robert of course knew the family history, the truth and the assumed world that Peter lived in.

Peter descended on them about four times a year; ostensibly, to see his sister and nephew, but he always called in at Robert’s ‘local’ first. Robert, a barrister with set ideals and standards to maintain actually, if the truth were known, liked Peter in an obscure way. He was very kind, loving and generous to a fault, when he was flush.

Being flush is always a problem for Cads. Living on your wits, as in essence they do, at least until the latter activities of the quintessential Cad are reached. Later on, he develops the ability to finance a comfortable life style, without the lack of lolly, when the ‘rich widow’ stage is reached. Peter, in his late forties is pretty much at the peak of his powers, still single, or at least without a recognisable partner. He is still playing the field with younger ladies of an impressionable nature, and always very beautiful ones at that.

The figure of Peter our ‘QC’, fills the doorway. At six feet and with a frame resembling a sturdy tree of the oak variety, it is a very impressive image and demands attention.

At this point, we pause to describe the QC’s attire. It is a most important feature and  usually the everyday attire for the serious type. To start with an immaculate blazer a crisp white shirt with cravat or Services tie is absolutely de rigueur followed by a pair of the aforesaid impeccable cavalry twills and the inevitable ‘brothel creepers’. The whole production must be of the finest quality and fit. Other modes of dress are really not important. Tweeds are optional for the weekends; again of impeccable quality and worn with panache. A business suit is rarely needed, as the true Cad doesn’t have a business as such. When the season demands, the hire department of Moss Bros is utilised for ‘Shooting’ attire etc.

Our QC spies brother in law Robert cowering in the corner.

‘Bobsy boy,’ he booms. They nearly always boom, but in a modulated sort of way. ‘How are you, you old bastard?’ This term of endearment is so wonderfully articulated that even the Archbishop of Canterbury, had he also been present, wouldn’t have raised an eyebrow if Peter had hailed him as ‘an old devil.’

Robert gets to his feet and grins idiotically. It always takes him four months to nullify the embarrassment of  being called ‘Bobsy boy’ every time his brother in law pleasures the arena. He winces at the sight of his brother in law’s blazer badge depicting a Guards Regiment, knowing that his brother in law spent most of the war on the run from Military Policemen. Impersonating Officers was his primary forte. ‘Oh hello Peter,’ he says with as much enthusiasm as possible.

‘Evening young Fred,’ says our QC, to the Landlord, ‘fighting fit eh? How’s our adorable Elsie?’

The fact that Fred is a sixty three year old bronchial asthmatic blessed with Elsie, a battle-axe of a wife encumbered with a face like a pickled walnut, is neither here nor there.

The QC is greeted with due homage by other customers who know him, and most of them try desperately to think of excuses to be late for dinner. They really don’t want to miss this treat, if past performances are anything to go by.

‘Gentlemen’s measure?’ says Fred, holding a glass up to the Gin optic.’

‘Thank you. Relief of Khartoum of course Fred,’ says our QC, going over to Robert and clapping him on the shoulder. ‘Still on Salvation Army?’

This, for the unenlightened gin drinker, is a reference to purveyors of gin, Messrs Gordon and Booth. A ‘Gentleman’s Measure’ is of course a double tot. No Cad worth his salt would ever drink a single measure…of anything.

‘New car Peter?’ says one of the drinkers, in an ingratiating sort of way.

‘Oh,’ he replies dismissively, revelling of course in the fact that the subject has been brought up. It’s a precursor to a declaration of wonderful line-shooting. ‘It’s a bit of a beast, isn’t it?’ This statement gathers his audience’s attention. ‘Frightens the crap out of me. Bit of a one off, breathed on a bit by the boys inCoventry. Do you know, they’ve sealed the bonnet, can’t even get into the bugger myself.’ This last snippet of bullshit alleviates any inquisitive type asking to have a peep at the engine.

The fact that his Jaguar is the only one in existence  depends on the audience. For instance, with an audience of non technical types, which can be found in certain rural areas, it has twelve gears, a fuel injection system made out of something NSSA’s dreamed up and fuel derived from plutonium extract.

This brings us onto the subject of what suitable modes of transport, in which, our ‘QC’ disport themselves, hither and thither, around their various stamping grounds. This facet, like their mode of dress, is a dead giveaway. Jaguars are always the favourite, closely followed by Aston Martins, Bentleys run a poor third and Mercedes run, not at all. The three star brigade are not au fait with the machinations of true bullshitting. It is however perfectly in order for the wife/girlfriend to own one; in fact, it’s almost obligatory.

Foreign cars are out, although our QC will admit to having owned a series of Ferraris and a Maserati or two, and when questioned, will admit to having raced them.

Why not a Rolls Royce, I hear you mutter. Too ostentatious and not rakish enough is the answer. QC’s don’t claim to be successful with shows of grandeur. Part of their strategy is understatement, which is after all, a great British tradition.

QC’s wouldn’t be seen dead in Range Rovers and other 4×4’s. These are far too common. Every Tom Dick and Sharron has one, and is only used for ostentation. BMWs are even worse. Drug dealers and rap artists are the main users of this marque.

Japanese cars, well, they’re totally infra dig. Any way had a spot of bother with Japs  in Burma. So we don’t talk about them (another ploy to invite somebody to do just that) Volvos? They’re made for the wives of Range Rovers.

‘What happened to that works Aston you were testing?’ chaffed Robert, trying to regain a semblance of moral high ground.

‘Oh my dear old thing,’ says the QC, ‘that was an animal wasn’t it?’ He turns towards the ensemble, understanding exactly what his brother in law is doing, and prepares to deliver the coup de grace. ‘Took dear old Bobsy here out for a spin along theKingstonby pass in the bugger.’

‘Oh hell,’ mumbles Robert into his Gin.

‘Had a slight difference with a Maserati. Had to take her up to the red line in fourth before he gave up the chase. Can you smell something? I said to Bob. Smell it he says, I’m sitting in it.

‘Bloody maniac,’ splutters Robert, gripping the bar at the mere mention of Maseratis.

The Pub reverberates to the burst of laughter. This is what our hero wants to hear.

Two career girls enter, not regulars, but well known to the early doors crowd as good sports and well able to take, as well as give, in the banter stakes. This is where the true QC shows his prowess. No leering looks, no buying drinks; in fact no acknowledgement whatsoever.

The two girls however do acknowledge a presence. They may register it subconsciously but the irresistible presence of our QC registers eight point five on the Richter scale. It’s a primeval throwback to cave women I expect.

Herewith another axiom of the true QC, a rule of thumb that has caused many a female heart to flutter. Treat a tart like a lady and a lady like a tart.

All females fall unfailingly into one or other category, but for us mortal men it’s hard to tell which. I mean we can go through life married to one sort or the other, spend a blissful fifty years in their arms and still be in total ignorance as to their sway.

In contrast our QC knows which category women fall into within a fraction of a second. Does he choose the ‘Tart’ or the ‘Lady?’ Both are like a red rag to a bull to our hero. When he’s on the rampage his whole persona lifts itself thousands of feet, nearer his partner in the heavens. Our pillar of the Valentino school of seduction deduces which is the tart or the lady by telling a rather risqué joke.

‘Heard one the other day,’ he says to the chaps, ‘about a rich dyslexic sex maniac.’ He takes a sip of his drink, not even bothering to glance in the direction of his intended victims, but knowing that their ears are twitching. ‘Bought himself a warehouse.’

One of the girls lets out a titter. She’s the lady, and well enough educated to boot. The other one scowls and pointedly looks the other way. She is the boot. Our QC now knows which is which and can react accordingly, depending on his mood.

Now, dear reader, I bet you reckon you’ve found a flaw in this means test. ‘What?’ I hear you cry, ‘If it was the ‘Lady’ who didn’t laugh, because she doesn’t know what dyslexic means?’ There are plenty of very thick ‘Ladies’ around, even dyslexic ones. And what if it was the ‘Tart’ who laughed because she was born in a ‘warehouse’, and it brings back fond memories.

Well, I don’t know. I mean I wouldn’t have to write for a bloody living if I knew answers like that…would I? Leaning on a bar counter; that’s where I’d be. Telling stories and lying a lot.

Our QC reverts to his motor car’s attributes, always a good ploy for initiating further revelations. ‘Only got the beast back from Coventry last week,’ says the QC, waving a hand at the car park, knowing he has hooked the lady and can leave her in abeyance for a while.         For the uninitiated he is talking about his car, not his wife or whatever, andCoventryis where Jaguars are made.

Robert is hibernating in the corner. He mutters something about ’Here we go’.

‘They’ve shoe horned a W thirty six into her,’ our hero goes on. He takes a sip, and lights a proffered cigarette ‘Can’t tell by looking at her though. Wonderful boys those.’          Now he waits for the reaction. None of the assembled fans has any idea what he’s talking about. He knows this; it’s all part of the stratagem. The blue touch paper for his launch into the world of virgin fancy, undreamt of by mere mortals has been lit.

One of the mere mortals can bear the suspense no longer. He scratches the back of his head. ‘ Er…W thirty six you say….haven’t heard of that one?’

‘Hush hush old boy, had dinner with the Chairman the other day, asked me to test it for ‘em.’

Mouths hang open.

‘Been doing it for years, ever since the SS series.’ He finishes his drink and casts his arm over the audience like a blessing from the Pope. This indicates the rounds on him and Jack starts pulling pints and attacking optics with a relish that belies his years.

Robert has a quadruple Gordons and very little tonic.

‘I tell you what,’ continues the QC, ‘Four blowers, one for each bank, seventy two valves and ceramic pistons will knock the hell out of  Ferrari at Le Mans this year.’

‘Jesus!’ gasps Robert, nearly spilling his drink.

‘Can’t touch it of course,’ our hero adds quickly, before the shell shocked audience succumbs to the advances of alcohol. ‘told you, bonnets sealed tighter than a duck’s arse.’

Now talking of arses, we must pause once again to consider another facet of QCs. That is the ability to always cover theirs. If he is a successful QC he hasn’t got where he is today without using bullshit. And bullshit does baffle brains, but as a certain Mr Barnum so quaintly put it, “Not all the time, but some of it”. You see, it is just possible that an engine with all these accoutrements is being developed, and who better to develop it than our own boys at Jaguar.

Meanwhile our shining light is working on a game plan for the girls…or at least the pretty one…the lady. There is a lull in the proceedings while the pub tries to envisage the millions of horse power quivering under the bonnet of the beast in the car park. The QC springs into action. A silver cigarette case is produced, opened and offered around to his fan club.

‘Players Perfectos on one side, Turkish on the other, hand rolled inAnkara. My chap inBelgraviagets ‘em. He turns round to the girls. ‘Do you indulge?’

It is of course no mere chance that the ‘lady’ takes a Player and the ‘tart’ looks startled and declines. She’s never seen a Turkish cigarette before and thinks that the oval shape contains something not quite legal at best, or at worst, a normal cigarette that this certifiable crackpot had sat on.

A Gold Dunhill is massaged into life, an action not unnoticed by the now fawning ‘lady’.

‘Fred’, booms the QC,’ ‘The girls are absolutely parched. Can’t have that’. He looks at his brother in law. ‘Robert, you old bastard, get the moths out of your pigskin.’ He passes the glasses over to the landlord and looks enquiringly at the girls. ‘Similar or something else?’

‘Relief ofKhartoumand tonic please,’ says the Lady, with a smirk of intrigue.

The QC smiles, he’s got her. She knows it, we know it and the old sow sitting next to her knows it. As far as our lovable bounder is concerned he can keep his conquest on the back burner, for further use….if and when. In the meantime, it’s full steam ahead with further demonstrations of immodesty.

‘Glad to see you’ve remembered Fred,’ says the QC and points to the shelf containing mixers. A look of consternation floods over the Landlord’s face. He needs reminding.

‘Schweppes,’ mumbles Robert, reminding Jack of the QC’s last visit.

‘Ah yes,’ says Fred,’ ‘I got ‘em.’

‘Schweppes,’ says the QC, swinging theatrically round to face his frenzied fans. ‘Only thing I’ll ever drink.’ He looks almost dolefully at his audience. ‘Arnhem.’

‘Oh Christ,’ says Robert.

The QC’ unperturbed. ‘Went in with the first wave, Got knocked about a bit. Found meself in hospital near Pompey in the next bed to Pongo Fordham. Didn’t let on he was next in line to the Dukedom.’

‘Jesus,’ exclaims one of the greener members of the audience.

‘We shared six cases of Gordons with the Matron. Marvellous old dear, high as a kite right through the war. Blamed it all on the Kaiser. Anyway we had nothing to mix it with. Pongo used Epsom salts. He drank it on the lavatory to save time.’

Everybody digested this imagery. The mind boggling. The tummy gurgling.

‘Pongo got out first and within a day, ten crates of Schweppes Tonic arrived, courtesy of dear old Pongo. Turns’ out he was a major shareholder in the company. Never drunk any other tonic since.’

Well neither would the assembly now, so well did the tale go down. The QC puts his hand into an inside pocket and pulls out a wallet. This next ploy will kill as many birds as an artillery barrage and will demonstrate his credibility in a number of other areas.

‘Funnily enough I ran into Pongo a while ago. Left the family business; bit of a dark cloud you know. Apparently he went on holiday toSouth Africaand came back with a six foot Zulu wife.’

He looks around for the expected dazed reaction. The anticipation of the outcome is etched in every nook and cranny. That is, apart from Robert, he’s a facsimile of the etching on the Shroud of Turin.

‘He started a marriage agency in Holborn for Hottentots.’

While everybody digests this our QC fumbles with his wallet and a cascade of business cards fall out. ‘Got his card somewhere.’ He says.

This ploy of dropping his business cards on the floor achieves the desired affect as various members help him pick them up, and consequently glimpse  a veritable ‘whose who’ of the British Establishment’s hierarchy.

‘I say,’ says ‘the lady,’ handing back one of the cards with a discernable crown embossed on its surface and a name not far from down the pecking order in line to the throne. Far enough, mind you, not to endanger the credibility or grounds of the possible, venturing into the world of fantasy, just credible enough.

‘Oh bless you my angel,’ says the QC, sensing an opening which would further enhance is image, he flicks the card over, ‘Oh good lord’, he declares, in a wonderfully understated way, ‘I should have phoned the old bastard,’ he gives the ‘lady’ a wonderful smile, not quite verging on an outright leer. ‘How’s your drink?’

Robert drifts further into a state of resignation and alcoholic stupor and watches our QC, manoeuvre the ‘lady’ inside the immediate circle, next to him, leaving her friend alone, without a backward glance. The underlying statement that they are now an ‘item’ is unmistakable, albeit on a subconscious level.

The phone rings and Fred answers it. ‘It’s Anne, Robert are you here?’ he shouts.

The QC breaks of in mid sentence, a sentence extolling the virtues and otherwise of the aforesaid ‘old bastard’. ‘Hang on Fred let me talk to her. Robert, this will cost you another round. ‘Hello Anne darling,’ he booms, ‘how’s my favourite little sister.’ The fact that he is in fact her younger brother and revels in the allusion of youth only helps to soften the diatribe which she was about to unleash on husband Robert. ‘Yes he’s here,’ continues our QC, holding up a warning hand to Robert who looks as if he’s about to shimmy over and make forlorn excuses. ‘No he won’t be long, but listen old thing, I’m only passing through, I don’t think I can manage to pop in tonight, got a very early start tomorrow, eighteen holes with  Greg, but will be down this way again next Wednesday, I’ll take you all out to ‘Thatchers’.

The Greg our QC alludes to is of course Greg Norman, but not stated. Very clever.

‘Thatcher’s is a five star establishment renowned for its ‘Dover sole’. He took her there once, Robert had to pay.

The lady has sidled up to Robert, whom she knows in a gin soaked sort of way, ‘What a nice person your brother in law is?’ she asks in a not to subtle attempt to elicit information. ‘Is he married?’

‘I don’t think so,’ declares Robert, ‘at the present time.’

‘Where does he live?’

‘I believe he’s got the east wing of the Palace of Versailles’, he replies, not being able to resist.

Fred places two glasses of gin on the bar. ‘On your slate Robert?’

‘Why not,’ he replies, shuddering at the thought of his overdraft. ‘Why not.’

Our QC has finished talking with his sister and joins Robert and ‘lady’. ‘Look’ he says, can I have a word Robert?’

Robert knows what’s coming. The ‘lady’ sidles off to the ‘Ladies’. The ensemble talk amongst themselves occasionally holding up their drinks to our QC, imparting thanks for the drink.

‘How’s the old credit situation with Fred, Robert?’ asks our hero. This, dear reader, one must remember was before the plastic economy had taken over the roll from actual money. A pleasant way to refill the wallet, when needed, was to cash a cheque with various publicans. The downside of the transaction was the temptation to give the cash straight back to the publican rather than ones nearest and dearest, who was doing her best to purchase the occasional crust for their starving children. Another downside of this arrangement is the need to have the necessary in ones bank account to honour the transaction. The true QC can never be guaranteed to have this advantage and consequently daren’t ask known publicans to cash personal cheques. All credibility would be demolished if the cheque bounced.

‘How much?’ mumbles Robert, taking guard.

‘Couldn’t manage a hundred could you old boy?’ says our QC bowling his first ball.

‘What…pounds?’ splutters Robert, in forward defensive mode.

`           ‘By the way you don’t happen to know her name do you?’ asks our QC showing another facet of ‘cadism’, by changing tack, rather like a googly.

‘Always called her Flossy,’ she’s the Lord Lieutenant’s daughter,’ lies Robert, knowing not her name or parental affiliations and scoring a boundary.

‘Is she by God,’ exclaims our QC, mind whirring with possibilities, all semblance of devious spin bowling vaporising. ‘How about fifty?’

Robert defends the ‘yorker’ and looked into his glass ‘twenty five?’

‘Have to be old boy; she will have to put up with a lamb chop.’

The yet to be acquainted recipient of the ‘lamb chop’ has returned and goes over to her, until half an hour ago, best friend. A short sharp exchange ensues resulting with the ‘best friend’ stomping out of the hostelry. The ensemble, realising that tonight’s show is drawing its final breath, sup up, and start straggling out, with  last cheerful farewells to the orchestrator, with a discernable stagger to their cars.

‘Flossy’ comes over to our QC, who has just pocketed the hard earned boodle and is ready for the next step. Remember, he has hardly spoken to her all evening. The seduction is an art, a classical ballet of unspoken chemistry, which most females can sense, but only the true QC, of the male persuasion know well enough to employ.

‘Fancy a spin in the county Flossy?’ says our hero.

‘Wonderful,’ she replies, fluttering her newly applied eye lashes and revelling in her new name which she deems a term of endearment.

‘Splendid,’ replies The QC, ‘do you know, I happen to have some delicious lamb marinated in aquavit from Henry at the Ritz, which I’ve saved for someone special.’

The inferred ‘someone special’ is just the ‘icing on the cake’ for ‘Flossy, she melts. The fact that our QC lives a hundred miles away, in a converted cowshed, doesn’t matter; our hero will explain on the way that the plumbing is not all that it should be and he’s waiting for the Queen’s architect to come up with plans to convert it to something wonderful, only goes adds to her infatuation.

‘Well Bobsy,’ says our QC, taking Flossy’s arm, ‘must be off you know, give my love to Anne’.

‘Cherrio’ shouts Fred, ‘Call again soon.’